


In Which York Requires the Assistance of an Invented North to Fix His Injuries

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: before there was red vs. blue there was project freelancer [14]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 03:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6036832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on the run, York gets injured, and realizes he needs more than just himself to cope. Delta tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which York Requires the Assistance of an Invented North to Fix His Injuries

York stumbles into the abandoned car dealership he’s been holed up in, gritting his teeth and clutching his side. _D…_

_You have approximately fourteen minutes and twenty-two seconds before the blood loss becomes unsustainable._

_Thanks,_  he hisses, staggering against the wall. The shard of metal embedded in his abdomen persists in making its presence known with every muscle twinge. “Gaah -”

_Medical pack one is now at thirty-two percent functionality. Medical pack two is completely offline._

_Okay._  York drops the backpack of stolen supplies - _grab a backpack, put in dental floss, rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, gauze, tweezers, needles, he’d told the pharmacy clerk at gunpoint, dizzy with pain_  - and falls to his knees, clawing off his helmet.  _It’s okay, I can do this, I can - aaahh -_

He fumbles to take off bracers and pauldrons, his hands shaking so badly he can barely use them. When he reaches up to pull off the chest plate, it pulls on his stomach muscles so badly he cries out in pain and drops forward onto his hands, panting, vision swimming. He can taste copper from the lacerations on the inside of his mouth.

 _Okay,_ he says again, deep breaths - except he can’t, those will hurt -  _okay, I got this -_

He manages to shrug off of the chest piece, letting it fall to the concrete floor with a dull clunk. Sitting back on his heels, York slumps against the wall, one trembling hand pressed to the shrapnel in his torso.  _D,_ he gasps.  _Next step, pull this out -_

_Have cotton balls or gauze at hand to stop the bleeding, once the metal is removed blood loss will increase by almost one hundred and three percent -_

York drags the backpack towards him, fishes out a packet of gauze.  _All right,_ he says, swallowing - there’s moisture on his face and he can’t tell if it’s sweat or blood. Probably both.  _On three. One - two - three -_

But his fingers, slick with blood and shaking violently, can’t get a grasp on the shard of metal. York fumbles at it, tries again; he manages a grip and tugs but the pain is mind-numbing, he yells and nearly blacks out, hand spasming uncontrollably.  _I can't - oh god oh Jesus oh god -_

 _You require assistance,_  says D.

 _No,_  growls York, readying himself for another attempt. _I can do this -_

_The human psyche is not equipped to effectively deal with this type of emotional and physical trauma unsupported._

_So fucking_ do _something about it then!_

York attempts to grab hold of the shrapnel again, but even that is enough to cause another wave of nausea-inducing pain. Tipping his head back against the wall, York closes his eyes and swallows hard, come on, man, you got this, he wills himself -

“Hey,” says North, quiet and close to York. “You're gonna be just fine.”

York’s heart stops in his chest and his eyes fly open because  _holy shit, he’s here_ , and then he realizes the truth with a sigh - it’s not  _really_ North. “Hey, man,” he says unsteadily, looking into North’s eyes. They're viridian instead of their usual baby blue, and there's the tickle at the back of York’s head that means someone is tinkering with his reality. “Didn’t think I’d see you here…”

“Well, someone’s gotta fix you up,” says North, crouched by York with the hint of a smile on his face, steady, reassuring. “Let’s get this chunk of metal out of you, how about that?”

“Yeah,” says York with a tight exhale, looking down at his bloodied torso. “Let’s do that.”

He can feel North’s ungloved hands on his as well as see them, guiding his hands towards the shrapnel, and it’s not a hundred percent right but York’s not going to complain. “All right,” says North, helping York grip the metal tight. “On three, all right? One - two - “

“- threEAAAGHH!” York cries out, the sound bouncing jagged off the bare walls, but it’s out, it’s out, he lets the metal clatter to the floor as he grabs the wad of gauze and presses it to the wound, breathing hard. North’s hands are there as well, on top of York’s, applying firm but gentle pressure as York leans his head back again and closes his eyes, heart pounding.

“Hmm, bleeding’s not all that bad,” says North, and York can practically hear D behind him,  _blood flow is occurring at a rate of number-number milliliters per second…_ “Let’s just keep pressure on this for a little bit…”

York opens his eyes, looking right into North’s earnest gaze. “Fuck, dude,” he says. “I missed you…”

“I know,” says North. “C’mon, let’s get this undersuit off.”

He helps York unzip the back and peel it off (except he doesn’t; York can feel it, in the back of his mind, that little sliver of reality where he’s the only one pressing the rapidly-soaking wad of gauze to his stomach, the only one inching the undersuit off his shoulders and arms). The worst part is getting it down past his chest and over his abdomen, pulling it off of the wound -  _out_ of the wound, oh God, the metal tore right through it and there’s shreds of bodysuit inside him - “Easy, easy there,” says North, hands cool and slick on York’s bloodstained skin as he helps pull away the suit. “You got it -”

“Ngah -”

“Just a little bit more - there you go, you got it,” says North, soothing, as the last of the suit is peeled away and York pulls it down to his waist. The night air is hot and dry on his bare skin, the gashes on his neck and shoulder stinging as sweat drips into them. “Just apply pressure again…”

“I know how to do this, North,” says York, swallowing. “It’s not my first field wound -”

“It’s not mine, either,” says North. “I’m just here to help.”

At this point the gauze is completely sodden, dripping crimson, and York tosses it away. Reaching over to grab another one makes him stiffen and cry out, and then he finds North guiding his hand over towards the tweezers and dental floss as well. “The sooner we take care of this, the better.”

“Yeah,” pants York, stomach muscles clenching in pained anticipation. “Fuck…” He grabs the rubbing alcohol too, and wishes it was real booze. “Okay…”

“First is getting any fabric or debris out of the wound,” says North. “There’s… one big scrap in there, but that’s it.”

“Right,” says York, breathing out through his nose, teeth clenched. “So we’ll just -” his hands clench around the tweezers and he slumps down against the wall further until he can get a better look at the hole in his abdomen. “North -”

“Don’t worry, I got this,” he says. “You’re gonna be fine.”

His hands (York’s hands?) pick up the tweezer, press against the wound to open it up. York hisses and grits his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, the wall pressing against the back of his head. “It’s gonna hurt like hell, I know,” says North. “But it’s got to -”

“Do it,” manages York.

The tweezers digging into his flesh are excruciating, he grunts and snarls, shoulders shaking - “Almost there, almost got it -” North is saying - “There we go!”

York huffs out a sharp breath, staring up at the ceiling, sweat beading his forehead. He can feel North’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently, a thumb brushing over his collarbone, before the pressure returns to his wound. “Okay,” says North. “I’m gonna disinfect this now, it’s gonna sting a little -”

York swallows hard and nods (it’s his hands grabbing the bottle of rubbing alcohol, not North’s, and yet it isn’t) and  _oh God that stings, that STINGS,_  fuck - he’s making stifled pain noises through clenched teeth -

“Almost done, almost done,” North is murmuring. “I know…”

There’s tears in York’s good eye by the time North (York) is finished, the hole in his torso burning like it’s on fire. “Okay,” York manages, breathing hard through his nose. “Okay, okay…”

He looks over at North to seem him watching York sympathetically. “This is the tough part,” North says.

York looks down at the needle and dental floss North is holding (York is holding) and braces himself. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

When the needle first punctures his skin it takes everything he has not to cry out in pain. “I know, I know,” North is saying. “Just hang on, you’ll make it…”

By the time he’s done (York’s done) sewing up the wound York is shaking with pain, lip bleeding from him biting it too hard, sweat running down his temples and neck, and it’s taking every bit of willpower he has to keep the whimpers curled up in his throat from escaping through his mouth. “There,” says North, tying the last stitch off. “I’m done, that’s the last of it…”

York tilts his head back again, eyes closed, waiting for the throbbing pain to dull. He’s vaguely aware of North (himself) taping down gauze to the wound. “Hey,” says North, and York cracks open a sweat-bleary eye to look at him. “Hey, you’re okay. You did good.”

“Is this you talking or is this what D thinks I need to hear?” mumbles York.

North shrugs slightly, green eyes soft and friendly. “Does it matter?”

“Not particularly,” says York, and closes his eyes again.

The stinging touch to the cuts on his neck makes him jump, but it’s just North (York), dabbing at them with a disinfectant-soaked cotton ball. “Sorry,” murmurs North. “Should have warned you.”

“Mm,” says York.

North moves slowly, methodically, over all of the cuts on down York’s neck, the few on his shoulder that the armor didn’t block. York lies still (except he isn’t, it’s his own hands doing the work) and lets himself be tended to. “You wouldn’t happen to have any booze, would you?” he says.

Chuckling slightly, North shakes his head. “Afraid not.”

“Worth a shot.” York sighs experimentally - okay yep, that still hurts. Now that some of the immediate sharp pains are fading he’s becoming more and more conscious of the bruising all down the left side of his body. Cracking his eye open, York looks down at himself - it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but he thinks he can see the red bloom of bruises yet to form. “Fuck, I forgot to get painkillers...”

He looks up at North, who is watching him through kind, too-green eyes. “I wish you were really here,” York says.

“I know,” says North. “Me too.” He bites his lip, hesitating, and then reaches out to gently lay a hand against the side of York’s face.

York can’t help himself - he leans his head into the touch, eye half-closing. He knows he’s being vulnerable, too vulnerable, but it feels good and the rest of him hurts all over and he’s aching for someone to touch him in a way not intended to cause physical harm. He barely even cares that this isn’t real.

“Hey,” says North, softer, his thumb brushing over York’s cheekbone. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

“Fine is relative,” mumbles York.

“You’re gonna be just fine,” repeats North, with conviction. “I guarantee it.”

“Yeah?” says York, managing a weary smile. “You think so?”

“I’m reasonably sure.” North smiles back, hand moving down to cup York’s neck. York can feel North’s fingers at the nape of his neck, gently carding through his hair, and he dimly realizes his own hands are still shaking as they lay in his lap. Something in the region of his heart aches in a way completely different from the rest of his wounds. “I have confidence in you.”

“Thanks, man,” says York. “Means a lot.”

North’s still holding his gaze, moonlight shimmering dimly on his hair, outlining his cheek and nose. York reaches up to touch his chest, half-expecting his hand to go through North with a shimmer of green - but it doesn’t, he can place his hand on North’s chest and it feels real and solid, the steady beat of his heart beneath the undersuit…

“I got you,” says North again, softly.

York’s not cold at all, but he shivers. North is so close York can feel his breath on his face, but it’s still like there’s miles of space between them; now that York’s got a moment to pause, everything seems to come crashing down on him, today’s events, the car crash and explosion that put the shrapnel in York, the job gone wrong, the weeks of scrounging for work in the first place, months of running scared, no home, no friends, his only companions D and the neverending fear of capture and arrest…

“Good,” manages York. “Because I’m fucking falling apart.”

There’s a quiet beat, and then North’s moved forward and pulled York into his arms, hugging him close. York freezes for a moment, unsure of what to do, how to react, and then the gentle pressure of arms on his back unlocks something inside him and he clings to North, face pressed to his shoulder. Fuck, he needed this…

“You’re all right,” murmurs North, a hand on the back of York’s head. “You’re okay.”

“My life is a mess.”

“Not going to argue with that.” North pulls York closer, kisses him on the temple; York’s grip on him tightens convulsively. “But you’ll figure it out.”

“Mnf.”

If he had his way the hug would last about a million years, but all too soon North pulls back, his hands on York’s shoulders. “You all right for now?”

“Yeah,” says York. His everything still hurts, but he’s dealt with worse before, and he’s going to have to face reality sooner or later. “Yeah, I’m good.”

North smiles, leans forward to kiss York’s forehead. His face is so close to York’s again, and York tips his head up instinctively, and there’s a brief moment where their lips are separated only by their breath… and then York closes the gap and kisses North, lips pressing softly to his. York’s only kissed North once before, in a strange combination of subterfuge and the knowledge he might never see him again, and this is… exactly the same, the warm roughness of his lips, North’s nose gently pressed into his cheek, the steady sound of North’s breathing. York holds onto the kiss for a moment longer and then draws back, and as he does so North fades quietly out of existence with only the faintest glimmer of green.

Slumping back against the wall, York looks around him at the desolate salesroom, moonlight drifting in through windows to dust the concrete walls, the only decoration a faded poster lying limp on the ground. It’s painfully empty and quiet.

 _Was that helpful?_  asks D tentatively.

 _Yeah,_ manages York, and starts pulling his undersuit back on. The wound in his abdomen twinges horrendously, but York just clamps his teeth down and stifles a groan. He’s going to have to deal with this for a while, after all.  _Yeah, that helped._

_I am glad I could be of assistance._

York sighs, threading his arms through the sleeves. He’s half-tempted to ask D to bring up North again, or Wash, or Carolina, or any of the myriad people he’s found himself missing, from his mother to that criminal couple from Voi. But he recognizes that that is a very, very dangerous road to get started on.

It’s just you and D, he tells himself. You know that. You know it can’t change.

And truth be told, he doesn’t expect it to at all.


End file.
